


Suicide Squad: Origin of Infamy

by NightmareExhibition



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, Legends: The Collection (DC Comics), Suicide Squad (2016), Suicide Squad (Comics)
Genre: Cannon Divergence, Enchantress and Moone get along just fine thank you, Multi, Other, Rewrite, Rick Flag's one sided crush, Villains, Villains being Villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:09:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightmareExhibition/pseuds/NightmareExhibition
Summary: A re-write of the 2016 Suicide Squad movie, in story form.





	1. Prologue: Insane & Chapter 1: The Queen of Gotham

**Author's Note:**

> What you'll see herein:  
> Lots of cannon divergence, some of which is used to bring the characters closer to their comic book counterparts, most of which is used to make the story more.... cohesive, I suppose?  
> A less abusive relationship between the Joker and Harley Quinn, because while I realize the abuse is cannon it's not the only way it could have worked out.  
> A more plausible backstory for the creation of the Suicide Squad than is given in the movie.  
> An OC Enchantress who is (in my opinion) much more interesting and also not the primary antagonist of the story.  
> Amanda Waller being less of a bad guy and more of a badass.  
> Character backstory being folded into the plot or added later on instead of taking up the first third of the content.  
> A story about villains _actually_ being villainous, which I have no idea how the movie forgot to include.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I had to shuffle things around, so this is the NEW location for the Queen of Gotham chapter. It's tacked on right at the end of the Prologue. So if you haven't read it yet, please do before you move on!

**Prologue: Insane**

Colonel Samson glance over the top-secret document he’d been handed. Then he read it again. And again.

He looked up and met the eyes of his superior over the table.

“Are you serious?” he asked incredulously.

“As the proverbial grave,” she replied, sipping her coffee.

“This is insane.”

“That’s precisely the point.”

Samson reread the document for a fourth time. How could anyone think this was a good idea? The success of such an outlandish proposal was surely impossible, wasn’t it?

_Wasn’t it?_

Their eyes met, and for a long moment two set of eyes stared daggers at one another, each vying for dominance in a silent battle of wills.

He blinked first.

 

**Chapter 1: The Queen of Gotham**

Harley Quinn hung from the bars at the top of her cage.

Or rather, she _hanged_ from them.

The white sheets provided to facility prisoners had been torn into strips and linked together; one end of the makeshift rope had been tied to a bar on the ceiling, while the other formed a noose that encircled the delicate neck of the woman whose limp form swung back and forth like an introverted metronome in the corner of the small cell.

Seargeant Griggs groaned, then rubbed his eyes with one hand. He’d gotten the call from the control room just as his shift was ending and rushed over with the rest of the guards, but they were already too late. By the time they’d unlocked the doors to the cell block she was already swinging, motionless.

_Should have known she’d check out on my watch._

One of the guards – Joey, the colonel thought his name was – unlocked the door and swung it open, his finger twitching towards the trigger on his KSG shotgun. Cautiously he approached the body, searching for any sign of life; with a quick motion he shoved the barrel of the gun into Quinn’s side and moved back, preparing to fire.

But there was no response, his action only leading to a slight shift in the direction of the morbid pendulum’s swing. Shotgun still trained on the immobile detainee, the young officer glanced back at his superior officer, hesitant to make a move.

 _Greenhorns,_ Griggs thought irritably.

“Cut her down,” he called to the guard who was probably named Joey.

“Yes sir,” the guard replied, then lowered the gun and removed his hand from the stock as he reached for his tactical knife –

 – just as Harley Quinn’s legs wrapped around his neck and twisted, tearing ligament from ligament and severing his spinal cord, killing him in an instant.

_Five…_

“Open fire!” Griggs shouted, raising his own weapon to fire on the prisoner.

In one deft motion Harley slipped out of the noose, released the slipknots at her waist that held together her makeshift harness, and dropped backwards to the floor, hands on the concrete, legs still hooked around the shoulders of the dead guard.  She released her legs from dead guard’s neck and swung them downs, ending in a crouch, and before the body had time to reach to floor she grabbed it by the straps on its tactical vest and yanked it in front of her. The body jerked as it was peppered with volley after volley of buckshot from the guards’ fire, but Harley kept her grip.

There was a break in the fire as two more guards rushed into the cell. This was what she’d been waiting for. She knew the guards wouldn’t fire at her so long as there was significant risk of hitting a colleague.

_Morals always get in the way._

Harley flung the buckshot-riddled body at the nearest  guard, who dropped his weapon and was pushed to the ground under the dead man’s weight. The second guard continued towards Harley and she rushed at him, ducking under his KSG and grabbing the wrist of his firing hand. She twisted, and as the guard’s wrist was dislocated he screamed and his gun clattered to the floor.

The first guard finally extricated himself from the body of his dead colleague and, drawing a knife, charged at the prisoner. She dropped to the floor to avoid his strike at her abdomen and kicked his leg out from under him, then flipped to her feet and grabbed the back of his head by the helmet. She then smashed his head into the bars chin-first, and there was a sickening _crunch_ as the guard’s skull caved in.

_Four…_

The second guard was scrabbling for his gun with his good hand. Harley kicked the gun out of reach with one foot and then took her other and kicked him hard in the throat. He didn’t die instantly, but from the way he gasped and clutched in vain at his throat his trachea was swelling shut from the trauma and he would soon suffocate.

_Three..._

The firing resumed with gusto, and Harley grabbed one of the KSG shotguns and the guard with the crushed skull and bolted out of the cell as fast as the added weight would allow, the body held with one hand at her left side like a literal human shield, her other hand working the shotgun as she backed towards the front of the cell, returning fire as she went. Across the room one of her shots hit a guard in the face and she went down, clutching her eye and screaming obscenities.

_Two…_

The guard who had been standing next to her continued to fire, but soon discovered himself to be out of ammo. Seizing the opportunity Harley dropped her dead-meat-shield and rushed at him, swinging the shotgun as she did so. He barely had time to raise a hand to shield himself before Harley’s KSG crashed down upon him, crushing the ulna of his right forearm and breaking his nose before knocking him unconscious.

Suddenly Harley felt a cold metal barrel pressing into her back.

_One._

“Give me a reason, freak show.”

She dropped the shotgun and raised her hands, turning around to see Seargent Griggs snarling at her, his shotgun pointed straight at her.

“ _C’mon_ Sarge. We were just playing, and you had to go and spoil the fun,” Harley whined, sticking her bottom lip out pouting, “That’s not very nice at all.”

“You’re one twisted freak, you know that?” Griggs said.

Harley Quinn pushed the barrel of his gun aside walked towards him, coming so close their lips were almost touching.

“You know you love me,” she said with a smirk.

The taser hit her in the chest, and she went down hard.


	2. The Man who Never Misses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had to reorganize the story line and as a result Prologue Part 2: Queen of Gotham is now Chapter 1. It was more of a chapter to begin with, to be honest. This is the first half of Chapter 2. Sorry about the delays, but college comes first.

Chapter 2: The Man Who Never Misses

There was nothing to do, so naturally he did nothing.

Floyd Lawton lay on the stiff pad of his regulation bunk, counting the bumps in the metal on the ceiling to avoid thinking about how much his ears hurt. The guards were blasting music into his cell again, and he was damn certain that at some point he’d be permanently hearing damaged.

 _Yeah, but when I go deaf this shit will sound like a lullaby,_ he thought smugly.

There was three seconds of silence, then the song switched. He growled irritably. And to think had actually rather _liked_ Twisted Sister, once upon a time.

A loud banging came from the cell door, though it was considerably softer than the blasting chorus playing over the speakers.

“Lawton. Dinner,” came Sergeant Griggs’ voice from the other side of the door.

The prisoner sat up slowly from his bunk and turned to stare at the slot in the door through which the sergeant’s eyes and thin mustache could be seen.

“I ain’t got all day, Floyd.”

 _‘Floyd’…_ the prisoner thought to himself irritably. He hated the name. _Damn smug, stuck-up… I’ll take my sweet damn time thank you very much…_

He plodded slowly and methodically over to the door, hands in his pockets, drawing out each and every step; he suppressed a grin as he saw the muscle below sergeant’s eye start twitching in spasmodic impatience.

_It’s the little things in life…_

When he finally reached the door he leaned down to the slot, employing more effort than was strictly necessary. He was taller than Griggs by a good margin, and he liked to remind the shorter man of that fact every chance he got.

“Been a while, Griggs. To _what_ do I owe the pleasure?” he said, voice oozing with sarcasm.

A plate of food was shoved through the slot in the bottom of the door. On it was a suspiciously grey slab of meat loaf, a pile of white glop whose consistency was somewhere between grits and mashed potatoes, two ketchup packets (presumably for the meat loaf), and a sugar cookie.

“What, no utensils?”

“Somehow the idea of giving pointy objects to a convicted felon didn’t sit right with men upstairs.”

“Awe, you afraid of me, Griggs?” he said, shoving some of the food around on the plate with his finger. With the exception of the dessert none of it looked particularly appealing. He picked up the cookie and turned it over in his hand.

“I’d take you any day, deadbeat,” Griggs said with a snort.

“That’s rich coming from a man who writes, oh let’s see, was it three alimony checks every month?”

“Two. And it’s child support, not alimony,” Griggs said with a smugness that was completely unwarranted given the content of his boast. He sneered menacingly and added “You keep this up and I’ll tell Interrogation they may have missed a spot.”

“Heard the little lady gave you trouble today,” Lawton said.

Griggs flinched visibly, and his mocking countenance soured.

“Eat your damn food Floyd,” he said curtly. Apparently that was the end of it.

 _Must have been quite the bloodbath to make Griggs shut up,_ he thought amusedly.

“Don’t call me Floyd,” he said with a smirk as he bit into the cookie.

Suddenly his vision began to blur, and the walls of the cell seemed to bow and twist around him. He looked back at the door only to see Griggs’s feral grin showing through the slot from the other side.

“You…. What did you….?” Lawton began, the plate slipping from his hand as his muscles lost their strength. He fell against the wall, struggling to stay upright.

“Night-night Floyd,” said Sergeant Griggs with a rabid sort of satisfaction, waving through the slot as Lawton sank to the floor.

He fought desperately against the leaden arms of sleep, but the unknown substance making its way through his blood stream took its toll and it wasn’t long before he felt his consciousness slipping.

Thought and movement slowed to a stop, and somewhere off in the haze of distance and memory a little girl’s voice sang a lilting rhyme as the world receded and darkness closed in around him.


	3. Wake Up Call

Wake Up Call, or “6 Humans, a Witch and an Atavist Walk Into a Bar… (Part 1)”

George “Digger” Harkness was strapped to a chair.

In the middle of the street.

In his underwear.

_Fuckin hell…._

He pulled hard against the padded cuffs on his wrists and ankles one, two, three times, but the bonds held fast despite his efforts. The metal chair was cold against his bare legs and back, and the full overcast of the sky just served to further the chill that was seeping into his bones.

The metal skeletons of once-great skyscrapers loomed overhead, collapsed and corroded until all that remained were faded echoes of their former selves. Shattered glass and debris littered the streets; spasmodic flashes of light jittered out at random from the remains of broken LCD billboards, sending distorted sparks of kaleidoscopic color reflecting off the remnants of beer bottles and broken windows. Cars in various stages of manufactured decay lined both sides of the street; some had had their windshields smashed, others their rooves caved in. A few were nothing more than blackened heaps of steel and rust, burnt almost beyond recognition.

_I hate these bleeding hangover dreams…._

He looked to his right and saw a petite woman in a white tank top, with snow white skin and pale blond hair pulled into pigtails that had been dyed at the ends like blue and pink cotton candy, who had been strapped down to a chair resembling his own. She grinned maniacally at him through a knotted cloth that had been used as an improvised gag. The woman looked suspiciously like the Queen of Gotham, right down to the little heart tattoo on her face.

_So it’s one of_ those _dreams, eh? Never knew I was into those psychotic types…._

On his left, a man glowered at him from a similarly restrictive chair, his bright orange jumpsuit contrasting against his dark brown skin. Harkness flashed him a toothy grin, which only seemed to make the man scowl harder. If he hadn’t known any better, Harkness would have laid money that the man next to him had the exact same face as a certain infamous assassin.

_Good thing this is a dream, otherwise…_

Suddenly he felt a hand bearing down with immense strength on the top of his head

“….otherwise I’d be up shit creek right about now,” said a voice that was not his own.

“Fuckin’ hell!”

Out of nowhere a woman’s face had appeared not three inches from his own, emerald eyes shining out from behind a veil of wiry black hair, the fingers of one hand clamped around his skull like a vise. He tried and failed to jerk his head out of her grasp, but he could not shake her; it felt as if his neck would collapse into his shoulders, and every attempt at freeing himself only caused the woman to press down harder.

“That’s enough, En.”

Suddenly the pressure on his head subsided, and the woman turned to face the one who had spoken.

A few feet away stood a man in army greens, roughly middle aged, with neatly combed grey hair and thin wire framed glasses perched on the end of a thick nose that had been broken one too many times to run straight. The man raised an eyebrow at the strange woman, who made a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl before walking a few feet away to sit near pile of rubble. She appeared to be sulking.

“Mr. Harkness, good to see you’re finally awake,” the man said.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The man’s eyes narrowed briefly at Digger’s profanity, then cleared as he offered up a warm, inviting grin in the Australian’s direction. Digger hated him instantly.

“My name is Colonel Earnest Samson. I’m the one who’ll be overseeing this little operation from here on out.”

“Operation? What in the bloody hell are you on about? And who’s the crazy bint who tried to squeeze my skull like an orange??”

 “The _woman_ ,” said the Colonel, “is called Enchantress. You’ll have to forgive her behavior, she’s gotten in the habit of reading people’s minds when she’s got nothing else to occupy her.”

“Everyone needs a hobby, right?” Digger said sarcastically as he stared after the Enchantress woman, who was now poking around in the junk pile with a stick. Every so often a small flash of green fire would light up in the midst of the refuse, curl around the end of the stick, and then extinguish itself.

“I’ll explain everything in a moment,” the Colonel continued, “It seems the last of your new colleagues have finally arrived.”


	4. An Honest Day's Work

An Honest Day's Work, or 6 Humans, a Witch, and an Atavist Walk Into a Bar… (Part 2)

Digger watched as just behind where the Colonel was standing a series of trucks pulled up and quickly unloaded three more metal restraining chairs.  The prisoner of the first chair they unloaded seemed average enough, though he struggled wildly against his restraints and spit on one of the soldiers, who popped him in the nose for his troubles. The second chair, Digger observed, held a man who displayed the most godawful skin condition he had ever seen. He looked like some kind of lizard, though what kind of lizard could grow to the size of a rugby prop was not something he was entirely keen to find out. And the third chair…

_Looks like a fucking Salvador Dali painting._

The third chair had been warped almost beyond recognition; the arms and back of the chair looked as if they’d been _melted,_ and the seat and legs were twisted almost to the point of collapse. It could hardly even be called a chair at that point, and if it weren’t for the other similar pieces of furniture in the vicinity Digger honestly thought he might have mistaken it for a modern art piece. After a handful of soldiers dragged the mangled chair out of the back of one of the trucks, a heavily tattooed man jumped down from the truck bed after them, shaved head down, hands stuffed in his pockets, and trudged over to stand in a line with the rest of them.

“Ah, splendid!” said Samson, “Now that we’re all here, I think it’s high time we get started – Lieutenant, you can remove Ms. Quinn’s gag now.”

A grunt with close-shaven hair removed the gag form Harley’s mouth, and she smiled dazzlingly – although perhaps a tad too broadly – in his direction.

“Thank you sweetie, this is _so_ much nicer don’t-cha think?” said the Queen of Gotham’s lilting voice.

“Now if you’d all like to introduce yourselves…” the Colonel said.

_What is this, middle school?_

“Oh oh, I can do it!” said Harley, raising a hand that she’d apparently managed to slip out of her restraints, “DiabloCrocSlipknotDeadshotCaptainBoomerang and ME, Harley Quinn!!”

“Well that’s one way to do it,” the Colonel murmured.

"Who  _are_ you??" asked Slipknot.

"I'm Harley Quinn,  _duh,"_ Harley said with a roll of her eyes, "weren't you paying attention?"

"That wasn't what I..."

“As some of you already know,” Samson said loudly, drowning out their exchange, “my name is Earnest Samson and I’m the Colonel in charge of this endeavor. Myself along with the men you see here comprise what is known as ‘Task Force X’. You'll also want to know my second in command -- Flag! Get over here!”

A man in full tactical gear jogged up to the Colonel and stood at attention.

"Relax, soldier," the Colonel said, then proceeded to smile and clap the guy on the shoulder in a gesture that, while perhaps meant to be collegial, caused the other soldier to flinch repeatedly.

“Meet Lieutenant Colonel Rick Flag. He’s my right hand. After myself he’s the one with the most pull around here, so you’d best get used to doing what he says.”

The man who had just been introduced as Rick Flag gave his superior a quick nod, then scowled at Digger and the rest of the prisoners. Digger flashed him a toothy smile, which only made Flag scowl harder.

_Oh, I’m going to enjoy messing with this wanker…_

“And finally…” Samson motioned to the strange woman that had attacked Digger when he first woke up, and she walked over to stand by the Lieutenant Colonel, who was looking at the witch woman with an odd expression. Enchantress turned to look at him, tilting her head quizzically; his mouth gaped slightly, and then managed to clear his throat and compose himself.

“Ma’am,” he said with a stiff nod. The Enchantress narrowed her eyes. Flag's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

 _He got at thing for her?_ thought Digger. Wouldn’t _that_ be interesting.

“Miss,” said Samson in what the Aussie thought was a suspiciously polite tone of voice, “I think we’d like to have Dr. Moon back now. Why don’t you go take a rest?”

At first the Enchantress said nothing, instead staring the Colonel down as if a test of wills were required before she would consider granting his request. Without breaking eye contact she began to caress her own face with the back of her hand, trailing her fingers down her neck and over the line of her breast until she reached her hip. For a brief moment she closed her eyes.

“Fine,” she said, then _turned inside out._

Or at least that’s what it looked like to Digger. The Enchantress seemed to ripple and fold into herself; a moment later standing in her place was a young, mousy looking woman with pale skin and dirty blond hair. She blinked her sky-blue eyes and looked around, seemingly dazed.

“Rick?” the woman said.

“June….” said Flag softly, staring into her eyes.

“Ehem,” said the Colonel, startling the two out of their reverie.

“This is Dr. June Moon. The woman you saw before, we call her Enchantress. They’re… two sides of a coin, shall we say. Anyway, they’re both assets, and they’ll be helping me keep an eye on all of you.”

“H-hello everyone,” said the doctor. Her voice had a soft, sheepish quality to it.

“Hello to you too, sheila,” said Digger with a roguish grin. _Miss every tart you don’t hit, as they say…_

“W-what?” June said nervously, eyes darting to Flag in a silent plea for help. Flag said nothing, but instead stepped just a bit closer to her and pointedly rested his hand on his machine gun. Digger rolled his eyes.

_Alright, mate, I get the fucking point…_

“Now, down to business," said Samson, "I have no doubt that some of you have been given some information or other about what it is you’ll be doing for us –”

“Uh, excuse me Mr. Colonel,” said Harley, “but I was Tased and brought here against my will, so I ain’t heard nothing about anything yet.”

“ _As I was saying,”_ said Samson, powering through Harley’s interjection, “for those of you who are still unaware, the six of you have been selected to be the first members of a new government-sponsored criminal rehabilitation program that –”

“Rehabilitation??” said Deadshot with a mocking laugh, “You want to cure _us_ of criminal behavior? Well you’re welcome to try, but somehow I don’t think you’re going to make much progress.”

 “Mr. Lawton,” said the Colonel “I think you misunderstand the intention behind this project.”

“And what ‘intention’ is that?” said Diablo. He had a thick Latin accent and the sort of cadence that made every word seem like it might be his last... or yours.

“While technically this _is_ a rehabilitation program,” said Samson, “we have no intention of releasing of you. Any of you. At least… not currently anyway.”

Harley raised her hand again and waved it around.

“Yes, Harley….” said Samson wearily, rubbing his temple.  

“But doesn’t that mean there’s no way to prove we’ve been rehabilitated?”

“Well, as I was saying—”

“Because recidivism rates only apply once we’ve been _released,_ you know.”

“I was just getting to –”

“Unless you was trying to measure somethin’ else like—”

“ _Would you shut the hell up!”_

Harley stopped mid-sentence, then made a small “hmph” sound and sank down in her chair, pursing her lips in an exaggerated pout.

Samson took a few deep breaths, removed his glasses from his nose and a blue cloth from his pocket and proceeded to clean one with the other. It seemed to calm him.

“ _What I was trying to explain,”_ he said, replacing his glasses and tucking the cloth into his jacket, “is that this is no ordinary rehabilitation program. The aftermath of the Gotham-Metropolis incident was catastrophic to say the least, and _those two_ were supposed to be the good guys. Now Superman is no longer with us, and the public is concerned with how capable the authorities are at dealing with the greatest threats we face. Threats,” he looked at each of them in turn, “such as yourselves.

“To this effect, the six of you will be tasked with cleaning up parts of cities that were abandoned after being destroyed, either by conflict between metahumans or otherwise empowered individuals or as a result of domestic terrorism. Our efforts will show the American people that even the most notorious villains can give back to the communities they’ve harmed, show them that no one is above redemption. However…”

The Colonel’s eyes darkened, and in them Digger recognized the same burning glare of self-righteous fire he’d seen in the gaze of every warden with whom he'd ever had the misfortune to cross paths.

“Let me make myself extraordinarily clear: we are not doing this for your benefit. Our goal is to restore public confidence, _not_ to hold hands and sing kumbaya with murders, thieves, and gangbangers. Every member of this task force is authorized to shoot you on sight, should you decide to act against us. Every one of you is a symbol, a symbol of the corruption that plagues this country; as such, every one of you is disposable.

“But, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. After all, we have a chance to do some good here. Restore public confidence. What do you say?”

At first, no one spoke, and the only sound for miles was the humming of the truck engines.

“So basically,” said Croc, breaking the silence with a voice like the grinding of stones, “we’re garbage men?”

“Well, in a way….” Said Samson

 “Hold it hold it!” said Harley, “I don’t think you’s understanding see, I _make_ messes. I don’t clean ‘em. Big difference.”

“I don’t pick up other people’s trash,” Slipknot concurred.

“You’re all pathetic,” said Diablo, and seven pairs of eyes looked at him in disbelief.

“Excuse me?” said Deadshot incredulously.

“You all spend your lives running around the world like you own it,” Diablo said, “How many people have you killed? How many lives…homes… how many families have you torn apart? And now someone asks you to clean up your mess, suddenly you’re too good to be bothered?”

“I’d watch your tongue if I was you, mate…” Digger warned.

“What makes you so high and mighty?” said Slipknot, “You think you’re better than us?”

“I ain’t saying I’m better,” Diablo answered, “But at least I own what I’ve done. I know who I’ve hurt, and if this lets me pay them back, even a little…”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Mr. Santana,” Samson said with a satisfied grin, “Let’s get to work.”


End file.
